


Autolatry

by cognomen



Series: Verse and Reverse [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Auction, M/M, Punishment, Slavery, at the very least this should be considered coercion, bathroom denial, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At the end of the hall he hesitates, knowing Bedelia watches from the open end of the hallway, waiting to see what cells he goes back to.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Hannibal can't explain the sudden magnetism he feels for the one cell she had not indicated - the last door on the right of the hall. Common sense would suggest it to be unoccupied, but something pulls Hannibal to look anyway. </i></p><p>  <i>The picture within could not be more different. This one is very certainly not a boy - Hannibal guesses him to be in his early thirties. There are few signs of comfort within this space - no distractions, as the others had. There is a bed, unmade and messy, and a chair.</i></p><p>  <i>In it sits a man with dark curls of hair and a defiant expression, and he stares so directly at the door that he meets Hannibal's gaze instantly. His eyes are blue, furiously intent. They do not change when they register Hannibal. </i></p><p> </p><p>Invited to a clandestine auction of 'willing' young men, Hannibal can't help but cast his eye on the most difficult offering. He always did enjoy a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solamentenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solamentenic/gifts).



Bedelia leads him through her warehouse, an amused smile on her features.

"When I told you what I did," she reminds Hannibal, of a time not so long ago. "You scoffed."

Hannibal ignores the jibe gracefully. When she first told him what she did, he had not pictured it quite like this. Nor had he had any time to consider it. To wrap his mind around the implication of truly owning someone.

"I knew you'd warm to the idea," she continues, and gives him a smile.

"Thank you for humoring my desire to see the goods early," Hannibal says, graciously. 

"I find it's usually to my benefit to give buyers time to consider," she says. "Desire, carefully stoked, bids higher."

Hannibal appreciates her candidness.

"Here we are," she says, stopping at the head of a short hall.

Around them, the warehouse has changed. The boxes of material goods - high stacks of crates that would mask the very existence of this back portion to all but those who knew how to navigate them - stop some feet from the wall, and here it looks almost like a dorm. The walls are painted, cheerfully yellow. Six doors line either side of the hall, three and three, with high, small, barred windows giving a clue to what was inside.

"The first five are what will be on offer tomorrow," she says, indicating all but the last door on the right with a pointing, delicately manicured finger.

She gives him the space to look on his own, staying nearby to answer any questions without hovering. She knows the quality of her wares will speak for itself.

Hannibal glances in the nearest window, doing his best to feel as if he knows what to expect. There are few situations in which he is not absolutely confident; this is one new enough to him that it may be one of them.

The intern within is not quite a boy - young, certainly - but he is past the most awkward stages of growth and into spry, lean beauty. If he is not yet twenty, it is only a matter of one or two years.

He is curled on a plush bed, comfortable and casual, reading. The relaxation surprises Hannibal. There is nothing tense in the posture, no sign of restraints. Bedelia had told them they were all willing, but he only now believes it.

"The doors are all unlocked," she says, when he glances back at her. "Nothing is keeping them but a desire to see how much they're worth."

Hannibal suppresses his laughter, turning it instead to a satisfied smirk. He doubts she quite means 'by the pound'.

Perhaps it would be a good life, to be taken in by a well-to-do man, taken care of and treasured, as Hannibal knew they expected. As they had been, perhaps, coached and coerced into expecting.

He moves to the next door. Another young man - this one slightly older. Just as beautiful and complacent. Down the line, the picture is the same - from thin, dark haired men to muscular, pale haired late teens. Any would serve his purpose as well as the next. It feels too easy. 

Hannibal has not made up his mind to do this.

Beautiful as they are, nothing sings out to him about them. They are interchangeable, to his eyes. Hannibal feels the call in him for something unique, something unusual. Something that would be difficult to transform.

At the end of the hall he hesitates, knowing Bedelia watches from the open end of the hallway, waiting to see what cells he goes back to.

Hannibal can't explain the sudden magnetism he feels for the one cell she had not indicated - the last door on the right of the hall. Common sense would suggest it to be unoccupied, but something pulls Hannibal to look anyway. 

The picture within could not be more different. This one is very certainly not a boy - Hannibal guesses him to be in his early thirties. There are few signs of comfort within this space - no distractions, as the others had. There is a bed, unmade and messy, and a chair.

In it sits a man with dark curls of hair and a defiant expression, and he stares so directly at the door that he meets Hannibal's gaze instantly. His eyes are blue, furiously intent. They do not change when they register Hannibal.

They hate him as much as they had hated the empty window, finding him just as interesting. The man's eyes are blue, in contrast to his dark hair. It is the contrast that holds Hannibal's attention long enough for him to feel a strange, sudden connection.

This man - this _offering_ , if that's what he is intended for - calls to Hannibal. Bedelia's specific exclusion is curious.

In the moments where they watch each other, the captive does not plead or rage. He just looks, looks so hard he seems to peer straight through Hannibal.

Hannibal steps back.

"And this one?" he asks, unable to deny his own curiosity, even in the interest of keeping the cost lower.

"Will," Bedelia says, her voice strangely wistful in tone. "He's not ready for this round of auctions."

She leans against the end of the hallway, her arms folded comfortably against her middle.

"I thought you said they were here of their own accord?" Hannibal asks, with one glance back into the room.

In the cell, Will is staring hard at the door, unmoving except the angle of his eyes. They have followed Hannibal.

"All those up for auction tomorrow will be," Bedelia says, amused. "This one is unusual. Most of my clients want more tractable-"

"Offer him," Hannibal suggests. 

Bedelia chuckles. "So you can have a lower price on a wild, unreasonable boy who isn't on the bill?

"Hardly, Hannibal. I like you, but you'll have to wait until he goes on the menu." 

It is only through a supreme effort of will that Hannibal does not laugh.

"What if I suggested I would not bid directly," Hannibal offers, in his best convincing tone. "You may present him however you like, drive the price as high as you can, and I will offer you a significant sum higher than whatever that figure is."

She considers him as if measuring him for treachery against his capacity to deliver on the promise, and her desire to have a difficult piece of merchandise off of her hands.

"He's willful," she warns, "disobedient."

She could be describing a dog, perhaps. The thought of how much _training_ would go into it, of how satisfying the results would be, leaves Hannibal's mouth wet with desire.

"How much more are you offering?" Bedelia asks at last, perceiving the real hunger in his gaze, the genuine interest. Perhaps she had only meant to be sure that 'Will', the willful, would be properly cultivated.

Perhaps she is just a wise businessman, with an eye to her profits.

"Ten thousand over whatever bid would otherwise win," Hannibal offers. He is satisfied by the glint of pleasure in her eyes, and is relieved not to have insulted her.

"Very well," she purrs, extending her hand to make a gentleman's bargain of it.

-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal sleeps soundly, and does not dream. He feels no uncertainty, no anxiety or remorse over his choice. None of the other men stay in his memory, no other faces come back to him. 
> 
> Only the man in the last cell, Will.

Hannibal sleeps soundly, and does not dream. He feels no uncertainty, no anxiety or remorse over his choice. None of the other men stay in his memory, no other faces come back to him. 

Only the man in the last cell, Will.

He dresses carefully, redressing only once - when he is unsatisfied with the performance of a new tie and pocket square set against an old suit. Hannibal will not be outdone by his peers and competitors.

Also, he seeks to impress his intended purchase. Perhaps he had already made a lasting first impression on Will. No reason for his second to fall short.

The invitation and bill of merchandise had come a week before, a tantalizing code that implied only upscale merchandise - pitching the offerings as fine works of art or specialized tools. Bedelia is careful of her operation, and extremely intelligent at protecting herself - so the bill appears tame, even to his educated eyes.

It was why Hannibal had even considered such a thing - though he would have to be wise himself, if he intended to continue his relationship with Bedelia.

Too many vanished boys would even arouse suspicion in _her_ circles. 

Hannibal collects his wallet, double checking his tie on the way out. He is, as always, perfectly presentable. He allows himself a slow, anticipatory smile.

The location chosen is an old opera house, the event by invitation only. It is small in comparison to the modern behemoths. Intimate and elegantly restored. Hannibal wonders if Bedelia herself owns it, or is simply borrowing it for the purpose.

A waiter - a trim boy with a neat cue of hair at his neck, dressed in a dove gray vest and pants and an impeccably white shirt - presses a glass of champagne into Hannibal's hands and distributes a disposable memory card into his other hand. It leaves Hannibal drinking far more quickly than the fine Brut deserves and wondering if that is intentional.

Clouded minds might pay more, on less of value. He sets the empty flute onto the next passing tray and fits the card into his iPad before he can be given another glass.

It is, he discovers, a bidding application and a magazine of sale featuring the goods as he knows them to be. At the end of the list is an addendum. Hannibal scowls, knowing the competition will now be desperate, disappointed men, seeing one last chance before them not to go home alone.

He had, of course, told her to use whatever methods she liked.

There are carefully beautiful pictures of all the men - details of interest to potential buyers, descriptions of abilities.

For Will there is only a hastily added set - a photo of serenely sleeping features, a promise of full description at the time of sale. It describes his age as thirty four, which pleases Hannibal.

Hannibal finds the face softer, younger without the glare. He has long, dark lashes, cheeks rough with uneven stubble and yet with clear, pinkly soft skin.

Hannibal takes another glass when one is offered. He resigns himself to a long wait, and finds a comfortable seat. 

There are far more patrons than he might have guessed - nearly two hundred by his estimate. Men, women, couples. Hannibal supposes they might be from all over the country. He has never found evidence of this many interesting people in Baltimore.

It is a quiet affair. An auctioneer begins the bidding. Their screens display the current offer and the option to bid higher. When no new offer has been made in ten minutes, the boy displaying himself with alluring smiles and careful posing is considered sold.

Bedelia collects a cheque. 

Boy and buyers disappear out a side door, or the boy is led to the wings, if the buyer wishes to remain and try for another. 

Hannibal watches and learns with cool disinterest. Six boys. Two hundred buyers. The prices do not start, nor stay, low.

It does not matter.

No man takes home a second acquisition. Hannibal wonders if it ever happens, if there are days with smaller crowds or package offers that drive the figures astronomically high. 

It's nervous tension that drives his thoughts to idle speculation.

A hush settles into the audience as they wait for the appearance of the last, sudden addition.

Will is escorted onto the stage - and he is the cause of a sudden eruption of excited speculation. Here is a boy in handcuffs, his graze dull and yet daring, and Hannibal suppose he has been drugged to encourage complacency enough to keep things seemly.

Even dazed and held to display - carefully shirtless so he can be tilted and turned, made visible at his most appealing - there is still fire in him. He keeps his chin up, his eyes lifted over the audience of bidders in an imperial attitude.

The number on Hannibal's screen starts to go up even before Bedelia has finished explaining his special nature and the unusual terms of the sale.

"A promising if _unfinished_ work," she allows. "What you see is what you get, gentlemen, and while we usually guarantee satisfaction, it is to be understood that in this unique case we will offer no such promise."

She looks up and finds Hannibal in the crowd, not looking at his screen, instead with it tucked nonchalantly in his lap. He meets her gaze and offers a smile he knows is charming. 

"With that in mind, it presents a rare opportunity to shape something _just_ as you might like," she concludes, answering his smile with one of her own as the numbers tick up and up.

It becomes as a game of chicken, with Hannibal refusing to look down at the number before she does, but he is aware when the frenzy of bidding fails, when it becomes a war of determination. 

Then just one, feeling his way upward in the hopes of making the 'reserve' bar next to the bid total vanish.

He, of course, cannot.

Men around him exclaim at the exorbitance and try to cast the pall of sour grapes on Will.

Hannibal waits. The bids close. Will is led away and Hannibal stands to write his cheque. 

He is certain it will clear, though even he will feel the loss. He supposes buying one or two less paintings, and lightening on the wine budget will help him recoup.

It was too delicious an opportunity to pass up otherwise.

Bedelia smiles at him while she collects.

"I hope you're ready for what you have, Hannibal," she warns, but it is playful rather than malicious.

"I paid a premium specifically to get something I might not be," Hannibal admits, pleased with his victory, even if he had gotten it with only a taste of the chase.

-


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes no effort to hide his glare from Hannibal, seeming to be wholly unaware that Hannibal's displeasure is something he should be wary of. 
> 
> It may be bravado or hope that there is no reality to his current situation. It may simply be the drugs that keep his motions slow and fuzzy, his mind a fog that he must hate.
> 
> Hannibal closes his hand around the chain between Will's handcuffs, the key tucked safely in his vest pocket, and leads.

Will makes no effort to hide his glare from Hannibal, seeming to be wholly unaware that Hannibal's displeasure is something he should be wary of. 

It may be bravado or hope that there is no reality to his current situation. It may simply be the drugs that keep his motions slow and fuzzy, his mind a fog that he must hate.

Hannibal closes his hand around the chain between Will's handcuffs, the key tucked safely in his vest pocket, and leads.

Will only resists for an instant, before he gauges that Hannibal is stronger, that now is a time he has no chance of gaining advantage and goes along. Hannibal lets him move at his own pace, noting the careful, deliberate way he places his feet.

"She said your name was Will," Hannibal says, leading him to the back exit. By some carefully communicated method, the valet has Hannibal's car waiting. He waits himself, holding the rear passenger door open.

Will glances at Hannibal, measuring him, but he does not confirm his statement. Perhaps he did not see it as a question. Hannibal supposes he will have to be absolutely clear in what he expects a response to. For a time, while they learn each other.

He turns to face Will, running his eyes coolly over him, to indicate his predicament. He leans in, tightening his grip on the handcuffs to keep Will from moving away.

"Will you sit in the back as intended, William?" Hannibal asks, allowing his tone to dip just ever so slightly toward threat. "Or will you make a choice you are going to regret?"

Will stiffens, standing straighter. 

"It's just Will," he corrects. His voice is low, practiced at sarcasm. It turns angry, snapping sharp at the syllables. 

"And I will do what you say," he snarls.

Hannibal supposes that should satisfy him, that he will allow it to, until evidence or actions disprove the intent.

Careful not to touch him - not yet, Hannibal is saving the pleasure - he settles Will into the back seat, and the valet closes the door. Then he moves around, holding the driver's door for Hannibal, bidding him a polite good evening as he gets in. Hannibal tips him well for his patience.

He turns the ignition and the Bentley purrs to life. A glance in the rear-view mirror shows his passenger leaning against the window with despondent eyes. His body is slack and listless.

It cannot all be the drugs. 

Hannibal drives him home - it will be both of theirs now, and the thought settles strangely beneath Hannibal's skin. He has not shared living space in a very long time.

It will be interesting to see Will slowly unfold, he allows. He decides it best, reaching out to turn on the music and allowing soothing piano to gently fill the car. Will does not move in the back seat, sitting quiet even through the whole of Beethoven's ninth.

He does not remark or change position when they turn off the main road, crunching down the mile long gravel drive to Hannibal's house. It does not seem to surprise him. Not the size of the house or the isolation of it.

Hannibal knows the symphony so well that even when he turns off the car, the music continues in his mind, note by perfect note.

It provides dramatic counterpoint to the action of letting Will out, of watching him unfold himself stiffly but without aid. He shies away from Hannibal's guiding touch, but heads for the house anyway.

"I am not certain what you were given to expect," Hannibal says, aware of how Will shifts at his back, cold in his half dressed state. "But if you respect my rules and the nature of our agreement-"

"What _agreement_?" Will hisses, the effect ruined by a shiver that snaps his teeth together violently at the end of the statement. "You _bought_ me, and there's no question what for."

His eyes burn bright and the fire of mistrust is clear, even through the haze of the drugs in his system. He holds his arms close to himself for warmth, a vulnerable gesture that dares Hannibal to comment.

"You wanted a toy to fuck," Will accuses angrily, "one that couldn't say no. Well, I won't say yes, either."

Hannibal turns to eye him coolly - he had of course, expected resistance, but there’s a rift between Will's uncouth words and the way he stands tame and shivering on Hannibal's doorstep, waiting to be let in. Not running or resisting, without even Hannibal's loose grip on the handcuff chain to guide him.

Hannibal swings the door open. Briefly, he considers leaving Will on the stoop, freezing but unrestrained to make a point. He does not know Will well enough yet, nor Will him. Perhaps what is left of his pride would drive him to run, even barefoot and shirtless into the October night. He would not go - or get - far. Hannibal can sense that much. He might, however, damage himself.

"I do not tolerate vulgarity in my house, William," Hannibal tells him, standing between Will and warmth, shelter and quiet. 

"It's Will," he corrects, shivering again. "And you don't own so much of me as to control my mouth."

_Yet._ Hannibal thinks, allowing Will inside.

He does come in, despite his protests. Hannibal finds him to be an interesting paradox of words and actions - protesting fiercely while going tamely along with what seems expected of him.

A puzzle.

Will does nothing so gauche as to stop and stare at Hannibal's carefully cultivated home. He had not been impressed with the exterior - not in any visible way - and he seems blind to the interior.

Instead he moves for the light that's on deeper in the house, heading unknowingly toward the dining room where the grow lights illuminate Hannibal's fresh herbs. 

Hannibal lets him explore on his own, offering no direction.

-


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal watches as Will learns the house - he is too stubborn to ask for anything, Hannibal sees. He learns through a slow, testing exploration; a stray taken in from the cold. He is searching for boundaries by doing, learning the dimensions of his own captivity by running into them. 
> 
> Hannibal forbids him from the basement. It is neither ready for him, nor he it. He has installed a lock, but Will is clever. Deliberate. Smart enough to get through with enough time and determination. Hannibal intends for him to be otherwise occupied.

Hannibal watches as Will learns the house - he is too stubborn to ask for anything, Hannibal sees. He learns through a slow, testing exploration; a stray taken in from the cold. He is searching for boundaries by doing, learning the dimensions of his own captivity by running into them. 

Hannibal forbids him from the basement. It is neither ready for him, nor he it. He has installed a lock, but Will is clever. Deliberate. Smart enough to get through with enough time and determination. Hannibal intends for him to be otherwise occupied.

Out of curiosity he affixes no restraints to Will the first night, removing the handcuffs and trading the tight, worn jeans for soft cotton pajamas. Whatever sedative they had given him leaves Will pliant and tired. Hannibal does not stay to watch him change, only glances in an hour later to find him nested deep into the blankets. 

Setting a glass of water by Will's bed, Hannibal leaves him to sleep. He has decided on the guest bedroom with the simplest decor and the biggest window. A gesture of balanced taunting and trust.

Unable to stop himself, Hannibal pauses, looking down at his sleeping charge with a sense of true possession growing and coiling within him. A snake that he is content to feed.

Will's beauty is clear when he is so relaxed, his features open and easy. Untroubled by his ferocious determination to resist everything exterior to him. Hannibal's fingers itch to touch, to smooth over the fine angle of his jaw and feel if his beard is coarse or soft. He thinks of pressing his fingertips against the ruddy pink of Will's soft cheek until the skin blanches white from pressure. Admittedly, he wants a great deal more, but he has time for that. Time enough for all of his wants, to cultivate this through to the end.

A total consumption. An ambitious project.

He counts the long rhythm of Will's breaths and leaves him to sleep. In the morning, he will be more himself. Hannibal is curious, but it doesn't keep him up. He sets the alarm on the doors, and trusts Will to know the consequences for disrespecting his surroundings. Perhaps, Hannibal allows to himself, he will not mind if Will misbehaves - a taste of punishment would make his point.

He is hardly a boy, after all.

Hannibal sleeps soundly; untroubled, unworrying. Will cannot leave the house without rousing him - and Hannibal cannot begin to teach him until his mind opens enough to learn. Cannot punish him until he has earned punishment.

Hannibal dreams of sweet music winding softly through his thoughts and household. It awakens a harmony in his soul that never seems to linger very long - a melody Hannibal knows in phrases and snatches, but that has yet to coalesce into a fully formed sonata.

At the crescendo, he wakes. It is early - before his alarm, but the sun is up and warm on his cheek, a reassuring caress. There is much to do. 

Hannibal rouses himself, pulling on a robe against the early morning air, comfortable.

Strange sounds - cabinets opening and closing, the rattle of rifled goods within - alert Hannibal that Will has already woken, that he is in the kitchen, searching.

Hannibal silences his steps, listening until he is sure Will is in the glassware cupboard, with his back to the doorway Hannibal approaches from. Then he spies, without guilt.

Will is systematically searching his cupboards - he has set out a white ceramic mug, elegantly fluted, and the silver sugar bowl, the creamer, matching and filled with fresh sweet cream. 

What eludes him is the coffee itself. Will is disheveled from sleep, his pajamas wrinkled from how heavily he had lain. Hannibal can understand the drive in him, but he is curious. Instead of moving to help, he watches Will methodically search the cabinets.

The top shelves are beyond his reach, meaning he pauses to lean back, peering intently, before shifting the objects on the middle and bottom shelves to be certain that no canned coffee hides within them.

Finally, Hannibal comes into his field of vision. Will's expression hardens instantly, turning from determination to anger. 

Hannibal withholds his smile, certain that any reaction at all would be met with resentment. He just waits.

After a moment, Will returns to his search rather than simply asking. 

Moving into the kitchen, Hannibal retrieves the tin of beans from their appropriate place in plain sight, measuring out the right amount into the grinder. He only hears Will stop rifling the cabinets then. 

"How's your head?" Hannibal asks, without looking up from his task.

Coffee beans clatter into the metal bottom of the grinder, a sound that has always pleased Hannibal. 

"Splitting," Will admits, coming to rest against the countertop, watching Hannibal work with feigned disinterest. He is learning, remembering. Tomorrow, he will make his own coffee.

"I would block my ears, then," Hannibal advises, before turning on the grinder. He does not check that Will follows the advice, simply waits for the machines blades to run clear without the sound of snapping coffee beans. 

When they are done, he empties them into the steel mesh basket of his brewer.

"Water would serve better than coffee," Hannibal says into Will's sullen, pained quiet.

"I had some," Will says, head tilted down, eyes away. "I want coffee - don't you have a normal coffee maker?"

Hannibal chuckles. "Over-simplicity at the sacrifice of finesse does not equal normality."

Will swallows an angry retort - exercising control. Hannibal watches the flash of his adam's apple, the way his features draw in and darken. His anger here, in different surroundings, is as real and as beautiful as it had been in his cell. 

"Usability should equal-" he starts.

"Then learn to use it," Hannibal suggests, in his mildest tone. 

He sets the device to work, slow-bubbling the water through the fresh grounds until it is dark and fragrant, opening them to the air and water. Will's response is further silence, as Hannibal pulls down a second cup for himself.

"Tell me about yourself," Hannibal requests, hoping to lighten the thick silence in the air, before the tension drives him to something he may regret. The pressure sits tantalizing and torturous inside him. Expectant, as a wolf crouching beneath the dinner table expects appeasement with scraps so he does not take his own with throats.

"Who I am doesn't matter," Will says, flatly. "You bought me as goods. Content yourself with the merits you saw before money changed hands."

Hannibal draws him a cup of coffee that will be far less bitter than his tone. Will takes it, hiding his grateful enthusiasm by refusing eye contact. It speaks instead to Hannibal through the way his hands curl around the cup, how he does not hesitate to lift it to his mouth, even steaming.

"In those merits I invested," Hannibal suggests, pouring his own. He takes one sugar, one dash of cream, and finds the results perfect when he drinks. "Any investor expects speculation..."

Will scoffs, the sound echoing into his cup as he continues to drink. "You were warned of your poor investment."

Hannibal thinks not, observing the challenge that dares him when Will looks up from his cup.

-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When I ask a question," Hannibal instructs at last - he has patiently coddled Will enough, letting him toe the line but not make the decision to either finally cross or respect it for nearly a week. "I expect an answer."

"When I ask a question," Hannibal instructs at last - he has patiently coddled Will enough, letting him toe the line but not make the decision to either finally cross or respect it for nearly a week. "I expect an answer."

Will has stubbornly refused to tame or relax - not that Hannibal expected him to - or even to concede enough defeat to ask for something to occupy or entertain him. There is a certain torture in bored inactivity, Hannibal knows; Will cannot continue to do nothing forever, but he seems more likely to buckle violently than to gracefully admit his own defeat.

He will not fold down and ask, but explode outward. Hannibal isn't quite certain what better suits his purpose, but he knows which is less likely to damage his property. 

Will looks at him now, a vague stare that skirts eye contact. He dares punishment, sullenly refusing to answer what isn't - _entirely_ \- a question.

Will doesn't back down when Hannibal rounds on him. He has resisted patience - and Hannibal thinks he intends to try and resist violence. To goad Hannibal into it, taking control of what part of the situation he feels he can. 

He thinks he knows what he will get, which amuses Hannibal, but not so much that he relents. Hannibal takes his space, drawing himself up until he knows Will feels every inch of the differences in their heights. Until the solid, imminent reality of Hannibal is no longer possible for Will to ignore.

Will swallows, his gaze dropping down and to the side but no less defiant, even in the face of such reproach.

"That wasn't a question," he hisses. He backs a step when Hannibal takes another into his space. If he can make Will surrender two more, he'll find his back pressed into the corner of the counter. Nowhere to retreat.

"Why were you there, Will?" Hannibal asks, cutting into the tension. "Amongst all of the other _willing_ boys, all younger, all milder - and behind that sixth door..."

Hannibal lays the bait out on a line, turns his question out carefully as a conversation so Will doesn't need to feel the sting of the hook - just slip the answer into his mouth and go along with the current. "One of those things was not like the others."

Will's expression tightens and narrows. His pattern of breath changes, as if he is drawing it in to speak. All he does is swallow his words, angry and stubborn. He hesitates.

"And if I refuse to answer questions, this is where you tell me what the consequences are," Will says, his tone flat.

His neck is bare, turned to keep the angle of his eyes away, and it presents a very tempting target for Hannibal's teeth. All that pale, unblemished skin. Hannibal reminds himself to leave bruises later.

Hannibal tilts his own head, eyes following a curl of dark hair against Will's cheek.

"I will never threaten you," Hannibal promises. It isn't a lie. Hannibal will never spoil the experience of surprise, never cloud Will's perception with the notion that pain is only a punishment, that pleasure is only reward.

"Then why were _you_ there?" Will asks, stepping back again. "Amongst all those men who went home with 'willing' boys - who will certainly threaten them if they are disobedient."

He turns his eyes up without changing the angle of his head. "What makes you different?"

Hannibal smiles. Finally an engagement - in the form of hostilities, but they reveal that Will's thoughts have been feverishly occupied in his long moments of stubborn silence. His is intelligent - too much for blind resentment. 

"You'll see," Hannibal suggests, lifting his hand to ease his thumb against Will's cheek.

Will snorts, moving violently away. His back hits the counter, arresting the motion.

"I don't find you as interesting as you find yourself," Will hisses, tilting his chin up to avoid Hannibal's gentle fingers. It brings his gaze much closer to meeting Hannibal's, traps him between touch and eye contact - _real_ contact.

Hannibal looks him in the eyes and tells him, "You will."

Will doesn't answer, shifting against the counter as if he means to climb up and over it, to sacrifice his dignity to get away and yet - he doesn't. That same paradox that is constantly present in him. 

Hannibal eases away, satisfied to reward Will's engagement with the space he so clearly desires. He does not intend to let his stubborn refusal go unpunished, however. Will had dared him - nearly _seeking_ punishment out. He was forcing Hannibal's hand - looking for boundaries as he had sought them physically in Hannibal's house. 

These behaviors, along with Will's continued presence, begin to unlock Will to Hannibal's understanding. Either he is so stripped of options in the world outside of the four walls of Hannibal's home he did not dare return to it, or he is far more interesting.

He wants - _desires_ domination, but will not submit without fighting. Hannibal will have to _earn_ it, a thought that excites him more than that of Will's eventual submission. There is no question of success in Hannibal's mind.

It's time, however, to start. 

Hannibal leaves Will in the kitchen, perhaps satisfied at calling a bluff, and considers his options. Firm, but not overbearing. enough to teach, but not to educate. In some cases, the old ways are best.

Hannibal doesn't know how much Will has dared to explore his room, but he doubts Will has been so thorough as to discover the restraint bench stored folded in his closet. Hannibal unfolds it into the wide swath of open territory meant for it, in front of the hearth. It is heavy enough to resist struggle, the center of gravity carefully measured against tipping, with pins that lock it into stability. It is dark wood, dark leather pads at the rests where joints will be folded and braced. 

It is a versatile tool, one that has always served Hannibal well. He values the array of eyelets that will allow him to tie Will just as he desires. 

This done, he sheds his jacket, hanging it neatly, and rolls up his sleeves. He debates on the subject of removing his tie now, or of making a point of it later, when eyes are on him.

He opts for the latter.

Something pulls at his awareness as he checks to be certain he has everything he will require. Satisfaction blossoms in his chest. Will has proved true again to his unusual attitude of protesting while being drawn in. Hannibal finds him watching from the doorway.

"You've spared me the effort of dragging you up the stairs," Hannibal observes, mildly. 

"You don't expect to use that on me," Will says, eyes traveling over the complex form, hypnotized as a bird facing a snake.

"In due time I expect you to _ask_ me to be allowed onto it," Hannibal promises. 

Will's eyes drag over the ground toward him in clear disbelief. Hannibal amends his thoughts, deciding that he will make Will _beg_ for it. 

For a moment there is nothing but tense silence, a face-off that is the cumulative result of their week spent in mounting tension. Hannibal relishes the moment, wet-mouthed and anticipatory. It is the last such he will have, until the very final moments before Will meets his ultimate end. The realization in his eyes _then_ may surmount even what he shows now.

Hannibal extends his hand, palm down, beckoning.

Will doesn't even consider obeying, the light of challenge coming suddenly alive in his eyes. His body tenses - a startled deer readying for flight Hannibal launches first, only by a second.

He wishes in that instant that he had decided to leave his tie behind. Hannibal catches Will halfway down the hall - he stumbles on the polished wood in sock feet, a lucky stroke for Hannibal. 

Dropping his center of gravity, Hannibal lunges, locking an arm around Will's neck, the other seizing for his shirt.

Will throws himself against it, scrabbling for traction on the wood floor. Hannibal has the advantage of balance, throwing himself back until he lifts Will off the floor, kicking and struggling in his arms until it upsets a hall table.

It takes them back through the doorway into Hannibal's waiting bedroom, and Will reaches out, desperate. One of his hands slams uselessly against the door jam, the other catches and holds. It arrests their movement for a few seconds until Will can get his feet under him, until Hannibal twists Will's grip free of the frame.

Will is snarling like an animal now, writhing and threatening with his teeth. He tries to use his lower center of balance to throw them both over but fails, Hannibal twisting against the motion.

Hannibal drags him back two steps further, and finally gets the curl of his hand onto Will's throat, feeling the arterial pulse of his carotid arteries beneath his thumb and index finger. 

"Stop," he warns, once.

"Is this your sick version of-" Will begins, still struggling. Hannibal braces him up and squeezes just enough to still the pulse beneath his fingers - not enough to choke or bruise or damage.

Will really struggles then, foolishly de-oxygenating his blood, his breath a racing growl, before unconsciousness finally claims him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awareness does not return to Will as quickly as Hannibal expects. His pulse is steady and even under Hannibal's measuring touch. Perhaps his body is just embracing the chance to rest. His pupils remain responsive and his breathing untroubled, so Hannibal continues to settle Will just as he wants.
> 
> It is the first time Will has seen fit to be convenient since his arrival.

Awareness does not return to Will as quickly as Hannibal expects. His pulse is steady and even under Hannibal's measuring touch. Perhaps his body is just embracing the chance to rest. His pupils remain responsive and his breathing untroubled, so Hannibal continues to settle Will just as he wants.

It is the first time Will has seen fit to be convenient since his arrival. Hannibal affixes him at the wrists, at the neck, loosely, and at the ankles. It will leave him able to squirm, but not to upset himself.

The picture presented is one Hannibal feels great pride in. Will's body is trim- a nervous thinness that speaks more of his disposition than any vanity or tendency toward exercise. Hannibal finds a specific appeal in it, in the suggestion of how much Will keeps himself reserved.

He settles into his chair with a glass of wine and considers the plain, pale, soft expanse of skin on Will's back and how best to make marks that will - for at least a small time - reflect the complexity of Will's mind. 

He hasn't quite decided - or finished his wine - when Will rouses at last. He comes up slow, the pattern of his breath changing, then hitching. Will jerks against the restraints, a rattling sound that has some music in it. Resentful blue eyes find Hannibal, settling on him from Will's forced supplicant position. 

"You choked me," Will accuses.

"I compressed your arteries," Hannibal corrects. "Not your airways."

Will absorbs the information slowly. He cannot see much of his own situation, his head held in place so that he cannot turn it too far, but Hannibal watches him take stock - blue eyes closing in a slow blink as he focuses on what his body is telling him of the situation.

"Is this how you get answers to all your questions?" Will asks, when he has a picture of himself in his own mind. Naked, braced and held to a padded wooden frame with his head down and his hips up, knees and elbows bent as if he were in a crouch. 

"Only if I truly want to know the answer," Hannibal says. He sets his glass aside unfinished, leaning forward over his crossed legs. "How does your head feel?"

"Pounding," Will admits, eased into answering unresisting when Hannibal asks something already at the forefront of his mind.

Hannibal feels the smile on his features - sly and victorious, echoing the pleased sensation just below his sternum - before he can think to stop it. Will's expression darkens. 

Rising from his chair, Hannibal stands over Will, letting him accept the full awareness of the differences of their positions and advantage into his thoughts. Will, crouched very near to the floor, has an excellent view of Hannibal's shoes.

"If I offered an aspirin," Hannibal asks, watching Will's shoulders and back slowly expand and contract with his breaths, "would you accept?"

No answer. Hannibal supposes he had not only expected but deserved this resistance. He has only shown his authority, made a display of his ability. Will - with his sharp, challenging eyes - is going to demand he _use_ it before he gives any thoughts to surrendering to it.

He rattles the bottle in his pocket, to give a clear reality to his offer. Will startles in response, revealing that he anticipates Hannibal will start with pain. He has taken the thought to heart that Hannibal will not warn him.

The blank expanse of skin is uncomplex. Hannibal pulls his hand from his pocket and gives himself permission to touch at last. He strokes the back of his knuckles over the defining bulge of shoulder blade, finding it wakes a certain possessive affection in him to at last solidify his claim with contact. Easing the tips of his fingers into the valley of Will's spine he traces it up, until he can curl his hand at the back of Will's neck. 

He crouches down to look Will in the eyes where the other can't avoid it, and finds they are bright. Will's lower lip is between his teeth, but there is also an excitement in him. It's that fascinating paradox of rejection and enthusiasm, even now.

"What will it take to earn answers?" Hannibal wonders aloud, stroking his fingers through the short curls at the back of Will's neck. 

Will's smile borders on vicious, with his head held at its downward angle. Of course he does not answer, and Hannibal supposes that at the least, he will have to be interesting.

Stroking his fingers through Will's hair, Hannibal wonders at his willingness to push even now, after Hannibal had rendered him physically into so helpless a position. Perhaps he sees no other option.

 _Pushy_ , Hannibal thinks. It will need correction. He straightens up, and Will's eyes follow him, his head lifting to the extent allowed by the restraint, and Hannibal has a thought.

He moves around Will and then reaches down, adjusting the angle and incline of the bench to leave Will stretched, his shoulders and upper arms extended almost into the downward facing dog yoga position. 

Stress is not quite pain -at least not initially - and it is not the sharp, immediate response Will seems to be driving for. He moves behind Will and can see the anticipation in the set of his shoulders, that he is still waiting for something to come. 

"Today's lesson has two goals," Hannibal informs him, pausing behind Will to let him worry about something more immediate. It affords him, too, a very pleasing view of Will held in abasement, bare ass lifted in a parody of willingness that Hannibal knows Will is profoundly aware of. For just a moment, Hannibal finds patience difficult. There is little stopping him, now, from taking exactly what he intends. Only willpower.

Hannibal returns to his chair with Will's eyes on him. He picks up his trailing sentence and his wine glass, both.

"Proper deference starts with the eyes," Hannibal tells him. "And questions asked of you will be answered."

Will looks at him uncertainly, wondering perhaps if he had misread Hannibal's competency. Hannibal resumes his seat, taking up a book from the attendant table. 

He reads, while the slow strain works its way into Will's stretched muscles, simply an over extension at first. It grows slowly into a low protest that sinks claws deep into Will's muscles, pulling and seeming to wake the weight of his own body impossibly heavy, burdensome.

Hannibal lets his own awareness fade until Will exists only in the periphery. Will shifts - to what little extent that he can - to redistribute his own weight and the stretch into other muscle groups. Hannibal reads, careful to turn the page now and again.

Will holds for nearly three quarters of an hour, until his muscles are shaking with strain and the sweat stands up in well formed drops sprung up between his shoulder blades.

When he lowers his head it's instinctive - Will isn't thinking about submitting but just finding a position that will lessen the screaming pain in his shoulders at least for a moment. By now it is surely traveling slowly up the curve of his spine.

Hannibal counts to ten, slowly, watching the shivering muscles over the top of his book, then slowly begins to rise. Will looks up.

Hannibal returns to his seat. He only needs to repeat the action once before Will relents - this is a passive obedience. He does not need to _do_ anything, simply to _not_ do what Hannibal does not want him to. He keeps his eyes on the floor - and closed - when Hannibal stands again.

Hannibal puts his hands at Will's hips, feeling the tension in his muscles as he eases the bench back up, into a more comfortable position, and locks it. He is careful to do it with his hands - gentle, cool against the heat of strained exertion - against Will's skin. To tie the positive emotion of relief to his own touch.

"How do you feel?" Hannibal asks then, to see if Will is going to fold in increments or crumple down more quickly once force has been applied.

Will does not quite whimper - it is an expansive breath, taken in and let out in small sounds as feeling creeps back into his arms and relief eases into his shoulders.

A response, but not an answer. Hannibal strokes his fingers along Will's spine again and thinks of which powerful motivator to use in this situation.

"Do you still lack faith or is it simply a surplus of pride?" Hannibal considers, as rhetorical a question as nearly every one he has asked Will already.

Both, then. Hannibal stands up, and Will does not look up at him - he can, at least, retain a lesson. His sore muscles will remind him of it for days. Hannibal glances up at the clock and guesses time will already have done much of his work on what is next.

The rest takes only a hot water bottle and a little more time, the natural function of the instinctive relaxation of his abdominal muscles and the pressure of the brace holding Will's hips up. 

His cock thickens, while Hannibal watches nearby but not touching directly now. Will bites his lip, refusing to acknowledge it.

"What do you need?" Hannibal asks, watching him shift, motions of his knees now, instinctively trying to draw them closer together while the need to urinate grows greater.

Will shakes his head, refusing, holding out for more even though by now he and Hannibal both know this will break his resistance.

"Will, your stubbornness has accomplished nothing. We are not where you want," Hannibal coaxes gently, watching him writhe and pull against the restraints. "Nor are we where I want. You have to accept my control before I can guide you where you'd like to be."

Hannibal is enjoying himself immensely. Though he would rather be training Will than breaking him, he had chosen the difficult path.

He pauses. He is not sure what - quite - he intends to do if Will decides that disobedience is worth humiliating himself for.

"Will," he asks, "what do you need?"

Will's hands are curled into tight fists, his hips shifting ceaselessly now, eyes downcast.

"I have to use the bathroom," Will breathes, and it is tight and tense but comes out of him in a rush, a flood like real release will be for him, when Hannibal finally decides to grant it.

Hannibal lets him up - he is, after all, fond of the rug. 

-


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What if I ask a question?" Will asks, waiting for his coffee in the kitchen. His eyes are on the floor as Hannibal taught him - he does not much seem to mind it until something suggests to him that he has been _too_ obedient. "Will you give me answers?"

"What if I ask a question?" Will asks, waiting for his coffee in the kitchen. His eyes are on the floor as Hannibal taught him - he does not much seem to mind it until something suggests to him that he has been _too_ obedient. "Will you give me answers?"

Hannibal sets the device to heating, waiting for the coffee to extrude. He considers the question and finds he is pleased with the sign of engagement. Will has surrendered to Hannibal's lead, allowed his training with a pleasing amount of resistance.

"It depends upon the question," Hannibal allows.

Will seems to accept that as fair, lifting his coffee cup to his mouth as he thinks about what to do with this almost-permission.

"You owe me a few answers yourself," Hannibal reminds, amused by Will's more careful pushing. He has learned that he cannot drive Hannibal into a desired result, only cause his displeasure to be reflected onto Will in genuine punishment. So far, he has not bested Hannibal, though he has proved a challenge for Hannibal's strength of will and creativity.

"I've answered every question that demanded an answer," Will says, risking a look up, a challenging grin, "so here's mine - do you really want me to be as docile as you demand, or are you setting the bar at an impossible height?"

Perceptive. Hannibal has been daring Will to truly defy him since he'd begun training him in earnest.

"I had my choice of docile," Hannibal answers - careful not to encourage a return to total disrespect. "I picked you."

"Why?"

"Because you didn't belong there," Hannibal answers, pouring his own cup of coffee, with a splash of cream. 

"And I belong here, instead?"

Hannibal chooses not to answer that question. He asks one of his own instead, driving to the heart of the conversation. "Why were you there, Will?"

"I was in trouble," Will allows, and it is _an_ answer but not all of one. Enough that Hannibal is satisfied that Will has obeyed to the extent he is comfortable doing. 

Hannibal considers the information, and then briefly allows that Will is _still_ in trouble, though he perhaps feels safer now. 

"Why were _you_ there?" Will asks, returning the question as he had previously.

"I was invited," Hannibal answers truthfully, "and curious."

Will does not seem surprised. He sets his coffee cup aside.

"So what changed your mind from window shopping?" Will asks and Hannibal senses that he is leading the conversation somewhere. He is curious to see where this will go - to have Will try cunning rather than misbehavior to get what he wants. 

"You're fishing for a compliment," Hannibal answers, enjoying the chance to play difficult for once.

"Wondering when you intend to get your full money's worth," Will pushes.

Hannibal knows what he means by it of course, though he doubts Will has any inkling of Hannibal's definition.

"Are you in such a rush?" Hannibal asks, considering. His day - as most of his days - was free. He might perhaps - well, a lesson in patience would not be amiss. Nor does he think it would be unwelcome.

"Hannibal," Will says, shaking his head and glancing up. "It's been more than a month. It's as bad waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I'm impatient."

It is honesty in a way Hannibal can respect. And an opportunity to teach and reward. Both of them, perhaps. Hannibal has also denied himself. He is unsure why, when he thinks about it, save that he is saving it. Holding it, like a fine vintage left to season in good temperature. Hannibal finishes his coffee, rinsing his cup and setting it on the drainer.

"Then we will learn patience," Hannibal allows. "Go upstairs and ready yourself as you see fit."

Will takes the time to finish his coffee, knowing it will not be read as disobedience so long as he complies thereafter. He is smiling, though he thinks he is hiding it, when he puts the cup in the sink. 

Hannibal retrieves his tablet to glance through the morning news - the front page screams that another girl is dead, trussed and left. Hannibal considers it, considers using the cover provided to simply _append_ one more death. It would be apatternal, out of line, but if you followed the dance closely enough...

Well, too soon to know, Hannibal decides. Perhaps when he is ready, the authorities will not have yet caught the Shrike.

When he judges enough time has passed since Will's departure - after a glance at his stock portfolio performance, showing a faster recovery from his purchase than he'd expected - Hannibal heads upstairs.

He takes care to move silently - he wants to catch Will before the other quite expects him. For all they have come through - lessons learned and time spent - he gets to see very little of Will with his defensible guard down. 

An idea forms then, tasting delicious and heavy in his mind as it comes together. Patience and an undone guard. Hannibal considers how the prospect of Will Graham coming apart settles on his tongue. Rich and pleasant like a cream sauce.

He does not find Will in his own room - not that he had expected to - but Hannibal's. Will stands by the fireplace, undressed to the waist but no further. His eyes are lifted to take in the painting above the mantle, and his hands have eased into his pockets in a soft gesture of comfort.

Will is beautiful - Hannibal had always been aware of it, even in his moments of bristling anger or defiance. But now he is relaxed, unfolded in a casual half-bare line with the light just catching in the wild curls of his hair, and in the upward curve of his eyelashes. Hannibal _wants_ him, and must remind himself that Will is already his.

The moment, wholly formed and perfect, encapsulates itself into Hannibal's mind. He knows he will be able to pull it into recall, when he brings the haven of this room into his thoughts. He closes his eyes and allows the addition to the halls of his memories.

When he opens them again, Will has turned, and is studying him in turn. Hannibal cannot reach into his thoughts, but he can read the slow, challenging smile.

"Don't tell me you lost your nerve already," Will says, and it wakes Hannibal to predatory alertness.

Hannibal steps into his own room and resumes command of it. Will's eyes light and then he hides the expression.

"Get on your knees, Will," Hannibal orders.

Something in his tone implies no room for argument. Will looks at him, however, with his burning eyes conveying that the slow downward folding of his body is happening to get him where _he_ wants. He settles down with his legs folded beneath him, hands laying open over his knees. 

Hannibal waits until he lowers his eyes before he approaches. He steps in close and curls his fingers harshly into Will's hair, feeling his nails scratch over scalp, just a little, just enough to show he can before he glances up.

"Undress me," Hannibal commands.

Will reaches for his fly, and Hannibal catches his hands, lifts them higher. This was about patience, about the proper order of things.

Will opts to untie Hannibal's shoes instead, working the laces carefully, and then setting his hands at the toe and over the heel while Hannibal steps free. He takes the time to line them up neatly, something Hannibal suspects is specifically for his benefit. The attempt to please him without instruction is new, a different stage of the game.

Hannibal offers his wrists next, and Will carefully undoes his cufflinks, passing them back to Hannibal before sitting up on his knees. Will pulls the tails of Hannibal's shirt out of his pants, the soft friction of fabric against the skin of Hannibal's belly a faint tease.

He works the buttons, one by one in slow deliberate motions before he slides the shirt off Hannibal's shoulders, letting his nails drag gently over Hannibal's skin. He sits down again slowly, watching Hannibal for signs of correction as he reaches again for the fly of his trousers.

This time, Hannibal lets him, and steps out of his pants as Will eases them off his hips.

"Fold everything and put it aside," Hannibal tells him. Will holds the armful of clothes carefully, mindful of creasing them, and stands up to follow the orders.

Will folds the pants first, frowning as he tries to fold them the way Hannibal does to preserve the press. He mangles the job at the waist, but otherwise manages to get them neatly into thirds and set them on the dresser. He takes less care with the fine linen shirt.

"Again," Hannibal tells him when Will tries to get away with 'good enough'.

Will gives him a sour look and flicks the shirt out to try folding it again, while Hannibal moves behind him to settle his cufflinks onto the silver salver that holds his favourite sets. They click safely into the place they belong and Hannibal watches Will struggle with the shirt.

"Fold it in half with the sleeves extended," Hannibal instructs and Will makes an exasperated noise.

"Is that a refusal to obey?"

"Could we get on with it if it was?" Will asks, pulling the sleeves together and then folding them back against the halved shirt Hannibal supposes they can, with some amusement, and moves away to continue his preparations. 

Will halves the shirt again, horizontally instead of vertically and settles it on top of Hannibal's pants. He is just turning when Hannibal flicks the crop against his bare lower back, stinging, surprising an alluring yelp out of Will.

He has armed himself while Will struggled with distraction, and the result - surprise, the pleasured hiss that Will utters as he reaches back to rub at the pink mark forming at the low end of his spine - make Hannibal's efforts totally worthwhile.

Will turns to see what has struck him, and Hannibal makes a gesture toward the bed to indicate where he wants Will.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will lays himself out on the bed, making a target of his back and ass, curling his fingers into the sheets below him as he waits for what he wants. It is a pleasurable sight. 
> 
> Hannibal wonders if Will is truly a masochist, or if the heart of his willing submission to pain is about self-worth.

Will lays himself out on the bed, making a target of his back and ass, curling his fingers into the sheets below him as he waits for what he wants. It is a pleasurable sight. 

Hannibal wonders if Will is truly a masochist, or if the heart of his willing submission to pain is about self-worth.

Perhaps he only enjoys having his mind scoured totally free of anything but the here and now. Perhaps he believed he deserved punishment on so deep a level as to crave it. There are many intriguing layers to this puzzle.

Hannibal lays the first strokes over Will's bared ass. He had not needed to demand that Will should unclothe himself the rest of the way, Will had seen to it himself. eyes aimed toward the crop making impatient circles in the air as Hannibal waited for him to situate himself. Now, he is glad for the unasked for accommodation. Stripes raise up pink and prominent on Will's skin as Hannibal had thought they would.

It's the pleasured sounds that are the most alluring, the way Will reaches up, mindless, to seize a pillow and clings to it. He shifts, moving his hips and twisting into the sensation until Hannibal realizes he is quite carried away. Will's skin is striped in layers of reds and pinks, his gasps gone high and mindless.

Hannibal has lost his count. Pleasure floods him in a way he can't quite explain.

"Is that enough?" he asks Will, with an effort to control the speed of his own breathing. 

Will's back expands with a slow, careful breath as he takes a measure of himself. That pleases Hannibal, too. The man's mind had gone so deep that he must drag his answer up from the depths, considering his every nerve ending.

"Yes," his voice is harsh, but still half-dreaming. "That's enough for now."

Hannibal sets the crop aside, standing over the bed. He reaches down to trail his finger over red and raising flesh, and it is hot to his touch, Will shifting suddenly as the brush of fingers wakes different sensations in his nerves.

His eyes are closed, his mouth open and soft, pressed halfway into the pillow he's holding. There is color under the skin of his cheeks, flushed down his neck. It isn't entirely from exertion. 

"Turn over," Hannibal commands.

Will cracks one eye and runs his gaze skeptically over Hannibal - lingering over his empty hands before he obeys. Hannibal will remember the hesitation. Will settles gingerly onto his back, his cock half hard already just from the attention he has been paid.

"You like pain so much?" Hannibal does not think the verbal answer much matters, but if he can keep Will talking it will serve two purposes to put off his release by dividing his concentration and to lead him carefully into speaking without filtering his answers.

He runs his eyes over Will's revealed body, his filling cock expanding slowly away from his concave belly.

"I like the distraction," Will confesses. 

His hands unbunch from the sheets at his sides, and Will pulls his palm lazily up his own body instead, a slide of skin against skin that catches and holds Hannibal's imagination. 

"Is that all the distraction you intend?" Will pushes in the guise of a question, finding and cleverly exploiting a loophole in their agreement.

Hannibal shakes his head. He arms himself from the bedside table for the next step. When he looks away, he is aware of Will shifting himself carefully to find comfort and relief against even the soft touch of the sheets. Or perhaps he is just rubbing against them for the sensations. Hannibal isn't sure which idea he likes better.

The device he retrieves from the drawer is simple but severe. Three interjoined rubberized rings, which tuck into the palm of his hand. Will looks at it with distrust.

"What is it?" he asks after a moment trying to solve the puzzle. The rings form a strange triangular shape, one larger and two smaller at angles to each other. Hannibal doesn't answer the question directly. Will is about to find out. He settles on the bed at Will's hip and then must remind himself to have patience. Will's eyes go dark with extending pupil - and Hannibal thinks it is the _unknown_ that is doing it to him.

"You are remarkable," Hannibal observes, reaching for Will first in the reverse of the track Will's hand had traced over his body. His skin is smooth and flushed warm from pectorals to the lowest point on his belly.

"Not really," Will answers, his tone a wry twist. "Not if remarkable means that's going to go where I think it is."

It is going exactly where he thinks it is. Will gives a frustrated groan as Hannibal guides two of the rings - cold in comparison to Will's skin - down his hardening cock. Will pulls in breath with a hiss as Hannibal negotiates it into place. The big ring seats all the way down over his cock and under his balls, the two smaller constricting at the base of Will's cock and holding his balls away from his body. 

This done, he surrenders to the urge to stroke Will to full hardness, watching the ring grow flush to skin, then constrict just enough to hold Will hard.

"How does it feel?" Hannibal asks, and Will instinctively reaches down to paw at himself, to feel what he can't completely see.

"Tight," Will assesses shortly, his voice clipped. He's running his thumb over the ring holding his balls.

"Pinching?" Hannibal prompts, "cold?"

Will makes a frustrated sound. "Like my balls are in a ponytail."

Hannibal chuckles then, and pushes Will's hand away from the device. It has give, and is not so tight as to cause damage. Will settles his grip at Hannibal's wrist instead, hanging on lightly as Hannibal finally touches him to explore.

Will's cock hardens up thick and heavy in Hannibal's fingers, curved just upward enough that it seems to lean into his palm obligingly. Will twists and shifts, distracted between the sensation of his bruised ass and Hannibal's soft, coaxing palm.

Will's body is made for it, the way his eyes lid heavy and the length and darkness of his eyelashes becomes fully apparent. His lips part, looking full and welcoming. His muscles shift beneath his skin to lift him into the sensations that most please him.

Hannibal does not expect to want it - all that's offered him, down to the intensely blue eyes still daring him, even barely open as they are. Will shows his teeth, and then lifts his hands away, settling them over his own head in a gesture that is both surrender and defiance.

Hooking his hands over Will's hips, Hannibal turns him back onto his front, enjoying the startled sound half-swallowed as Will tries to catch himself just enough for comfortable arrangement of his entrapped cock, Will is still easing himself down when the cold splash of lube impacts just against his tailbone, running down into his ass, up the curve of his spine. Hannibal pins him, pushing Will's hips down.

His hands are beneath them, and Hannibal waits a moment for Will to finish his adjustments. Then he swipes his finger against Will's entrance, rough and slick, before prying into him at last, sending Will clawing for a hold in the blankets below him.

Breath tears out of him in a whuf, and he eases forward, just enough to control exactly how quickly Hannibal's fingers penetrate him without shying away from what he had been asking for. Will gets his knees beneath him, and Hannibal does not let him have that control. He sits up on his own knees behind Will, pinning him at his shoulders with his other hand.

He withdraws his fingers and strikes Will on the ass sharply enough for sound and he _feels_ Will's answering, pained growl through his restraining grip.

"Patience," Hannibal reminds.

"Fuck patience," Will answers, and Hannibal can feel him winding up to fight, gathering to resist further delay. Hannibal has limited options. He knows which one will _work_ however.

Forgetting patience, he sinks three fingers into Will, feeling him tense and gasp. Will claws at the bedding, but he pushes back _into_ it, wisely, as Hannibal hooks his fingers down into the soft heat of Will's body.

Fuck patience, indeed. Will goes still, panting. His grip is tight in the sheets, but Hannibal does not think he has caused undue pain. Just enough to steal Will's thoughts away from resistance. He works his fingers in short, firm motions until some of the tightness eases and the slick can do its work.

He doesn't let Will fully catch his breath before he withdraws his fingers, leaning his weight down over Will's back into the grip pinning Will as he lines himself up.

With the head of Hannibal's cock pressing for entrance against his ass, Will finds enough air to gasp, "I thought this was about patience."

Hannibal hunkers lower over him, and feels Will shifting his knees wider apart as if to make room and ease the tension. "Patience for you. Not for me."

The resistance fails and Hannibal penetrates in a rush, taking inches before momentum slows again. Will's nails make an audible sound against the sheets, his back expanding with the force of his indrawn breaths. 

"God," Will gasps, the voice low in his chest as if to cough the word up from the depths, and then; "more." 

Hannibal obliges, and he lets his own thoughts go, letting go of calculation and temperance now that he is certain Will is not going to shatter under this pressure. Not quickly, but more deeply with every thrust. Will feels tight, but welcoming around his cock, making sweet noises between satisfaction and too much.

Hannibal will see the balance tip - despite how far they are, they have only started. For now, he satisfies himself with what he has been waiting for - Will, close and intimate and held still by his own needs. 

The feelings build and intensify, folding back on themselves until he finds release, pushed deep into Will. Pain sparks up along the underside of Hannibal's arms, Will's nails scratching marks in his skin where he can reach.

"I can't," Will gasps, desperate and writhing against the bed. "Hannibal, I can't."

It is breathless, with a depth of _wanting_ that surprises Hannibal. It penetrates his satisfied haze, the heat and fog in his mind as he withdraws with a wet sound.

Will complains, groaning, reaching down for the confinement around his cock and genitals. Hannibal does not stop him, sitting back to catch his breath and watch Will try - with the distractions of device and his still stinging skin.

"Can't you?" Hannibal encourages, earning a snarl from Will.

Will eases over onto his back, curling his hand around his own cock, leaking a thin trail of clear liquid, skin flushed to a desperate purple between Will's pale fingers. Hannibal makes no move to help, watching the frustration build up in Will, the desperation.

Hannibal waits, knowing Will's stubbornness will work against him. He will not _ask_ for release from the device. Instead, he fights against the confines, and giving Hannibal more of a show than if he had directly asked for one.

He settles for the direct method, his grip tight, pumping furiously. Hannibal waits until he is getting close - or at least somewhere - before he closes his own hand over Will's length to stop the motion, enduring Will's clawing at his wrist.

"Give me my answer, Will," Hannibal says, stroking Will just enough to tease.

Will's eyes come open, burning blue, the same intense penetration that he had first trained on Hannibal from within the cell at the warehouse. He bites his lip, and Hannibal has the premonition that he will _get_ his answer, but he will not like it.

It excites him.

Will twists on the sheets, his cock hard and hot, slick in Hannibal's grip. He defers his eyes as he answers.

"I'm with the FBI."

-


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's grip tightens enough for Will to gasp, trying to pull himself up the bed. Not enough for real damage, Hannibal has better control than that, but he wants to be sure he has Will's attention. That Will is certain how very serious Hannibal is.
> 
> "Will," he warns, "are you certain that's the answer you want to give?"

Hannibal's grip tightens enough for Will to gasp, trying to pull himself up the bed. Not enough for real damage, Hannibal has better control than that, but he wants to be sure he has Will's attention. That Will is certain how very serious Hannibal is.

"Will," he warns, "are you certain that's the answer you want to give?"

Will swallows, writhing against the pressure as he tries to put his next words together. Hannibal realizes it is not a bluff, not an exaggeration or a lie. Will's gaze holds genuine apology - as if he wished he could take back the truth. There is no fear or disgust, it is not a ploy to get out of a situation he finds distasteful.

"We learned of - " Will swallows, wetting his lips. The series of rings leaves him hard and sensitive in Hannibal's grip, even when the nerves and uncertainty of his admission should have left him softening. "We found out about Bedelia's organization a few months ago."

Hannibal waits, watching Will; his eyes defer as he was taught, sliding down and to the side. 

"We couldn't prove any of the young men were, um, unwilling. But there was a link - a man turned up murdered who fit both profiles."

"Both profiles?"

"Bedelia's profile for merchandise and the victim profile of a serial killer," Will explains, and Hannibal relaxes just a fraction. If Will suspected him, he would not be telling Hannibal - at least not to do anything but measure his response.

"I thought the killer seemed to prefer young women," Hannibal prompts, allowing himself to seem drawn in by curiosity.

"Not the shrike," Will says.

Hannibal thinks of the brutally sharp katana sitting in the alcove, just there in the hallway. His current advantage is preferable for the moment. He does not ask which serial killer. 

"We thought we could infiltrate and monitor - and when it came up that my college years had been - uh," Will's mouth shapes into a depreciatory grimace, "exploratory."

He sighs. "When that came to light, they decided I was the only one for the job."

"And _this_ ," Hannibal strokes him again, "is all part of your job?"

"Hardly," Will answers, blandly. "Hannibal, are we going to talk this through or are you going to let me cum before my dick falls off?"

The aforementioned member is still hard and hot in Hannibal's grip - in no imminent danger of damage. He considers Will's answer, given as it was in the form of a question. He was delivering honesty and hoping it did not mean an ending. Curious path for an FBI agent. 

"Will," Hannibal starts, watching him. "You're asking for a lot of faith."

"You've asked _me_ for that and worse," Will answers, with a glance toward the fireplace to remind Hannibal of his session with the punishment horse. Hannibal has hardly forgotten. "Besides, you've already fucked me."

It's the truth, and Hannibal supposes, upon consideration that if he truly intended to kill Will, at least tonight, he would have already done it. There was no shortage of options, even if they were far messier than he liked. 

"I have been," Will adds dropping his tone into something low and tempting, enticing Hannibal sweetly back to his game, "very patient." 

Hannibal sees through his tactic, knowing there were two intents - to tempt and to goad. "That's hardly yours to assess."

Will stares at him, until Hannibal finally smiles in the face of his irritation. 

"You have been both patient and obedient," he allows, supposing that he had asked for the information, even if he hadn't expected the truth to be what it was. He shifts up, leaning over Will and stroking him once - he will have to push Will back to the edge. 

Fortunately, he has a few ideas.Hannibal leans down, then, rather than praising Will with words. He closes his mouth over the head of Will's cock and licks him wet, until all signs of impatience fade from Will. He can feel Will's muscles begin to slowly relax under his hands. 

He is pleased to take his time, to work his mouth over every inch of Will's cock, until it is dripping ready again, bitter and hot against Hannibal's tongue. He sucks Will deep, and then draws back, licking, flattening his tongue. The sensations must be prolonged for Will, riding him along the edge of release until he's groaning and twisting.

A series of harsh, continuous sounds comes out of him, and his hands finally dare to settle in Hannibal's hair - lightly, without encouraging him forcefully. Will twists, arching up when Hannibal pulls back. 

"I can't," he gasps, and Hannibal strokes one finger along the inside of Will's thigh. Will is trapped, right on the edge of orgasm, and trying to claw his way to it.

Will denies that he can, over and over, until he he finds release, nails running sharp over Hannibal's scalp as his voice rips free, a half strangled growl. Hannibal drinks him down and then leans back, salt bitter taste on his tongue like a long lasting brand. 

He swallows, carefully watching every moment of Will's recovery. He is breathing hard, shuddering, breaths, limp and quiet on the bed. His cock is still hard, blood trapped by the rings and Hannibal strokes the very tip of his finger along the underside of Will's cock. He whines, shifting away - his skin is sensitive, overstimulated.

"God," Will breathes reverently, when he seems to have found himself again. His hand absently seeks out the cock ring, running his fingers over it as if it was sore. Hannibal pushes his hands away, and begins to negotiate the release, easing it up and off to let Will's cock soften again.

"That was intense," Will breathes, laying back. He lifts one arm over his eyes, as if the light was too much for them, even in the dim bedroom.

"So I hear," Hannibal agrees, setting aside the equipment and rousing himself. The languor of his own release has faded, but now there is the pleasure of wrenching orgasm from Will. He moves to the bathroom, his thoughts quiet. 

He wets a cloth in warm water, and finds that Will has rolled over onto his stomach. He supposes he must wash the sheets in the morning. Still, he settles on the bed to clean Will up as best he can. 

"Where did your plan go wrong?" Hannibal asks, because he finds how close Will is, without _seeing_ , to be an amusement. 

Will swallows, shifting onto his side. 

"I-uh, I got myself into Bedelia's group, assisting her in scouting prospective - " he closes his eyes, shakes his head. "I was hoping to find out they really weren't all willing or if they were, who her repeat buyers were."

His eyes are lowered, dark with memory. He takes a deep breath, vulnerable and naked to Hannibal in a way that he hasn't been before. The truth of him - this small part of it - is as bare as skin.

"And she found out," Will says. "Drugged me, moved me. I thought it was lucky she didn't kill me - but I wasn't surprised she knew what to do with the unwilling."

"And you were just left there?"

Will smiles, wryly. "I hoped maybe the FBI would come buy me out of it, but even if they were there bidding, you apparently paid so astronomical a figure..."

It pleases Hannibal to think he might have frustrated the government, even unknowingly. They would never have found him by their clumsy attempts, the perceived overlap was only in their imagination - so far. Yet, here was his bait, hung out unknowingly to twist upon the line. He had been Hannibal's this long and does not yet know.

"And now, Will?" Hannibal asks, wondering how all of this will terminate. If it is over now that there is truth between them. 

Will swallows, closing his eyes. Hannibal can sense the debate under his skin, the warring thoughts. 

"I gave you what you wanted," He says, voice raw and bordering on genuine emotion. The duality, that Hannibal finds us so captivating is surfacing again, and inside Will is a war. 

"Will you let me go?" he asks, opening his eyes. Not to plead, but to challenge. To _dare_ Hannibal to make the right choice when Will himself is not certain which option he wants.

Hannibal accepts the reins of control knowing his answer will bind like a chain round the neck. Will is a prisoner on his own terms already, though he is not cuffed to the house. Whatever Hannibal's answer, he will abide it as if he were tied, hand and foot. 

"No," Hannibal says and accepts the wash of anger that comes into Will's eyes, revels in the challenge that his resistance will bring. They descend one step deeper into the game, as down a long and spiral staircase.

He thinks Will is going to try and resist inviting him now, and the thought pleases him as much as Will's daring had. It will not, of course, stop him.

"Not while you are so conflicted about it," Hannibal promises, with a maddening grin - an angler's smile of sharp teeth in the deep water, with the luring promise of light all the way down.

Will does not smile in answer, but shows his teeth. "I'll strive for _clarity_ , then."

Hannibal is counting on it, counting on Will to walk into his fate with his eyes wide open and challenging. Until then, he is safe.

[END.]

**Author's Note:**

> -This work will have a twin piece in which Hannibal is the slave to appear shortly after I finish it.
> 
> -A gift for the very sweet wiith-my-hands on tumblr, who gave me the inspiration for it.
> 
> -This work beta'd by [Quedarius](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/pseuds/Quedarius), my most amazing and loyal muse.


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